


Things Jack Said

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brainwashing, Divorce, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Violence, Euthanasia, Implied/Referenced Dub-con, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pre-Slash, Toxic Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-07 18:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11064435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: A series of very short Hydra husbands stories, inspired by a prompt list.





	1. At 1 AM

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt list.](http://cadkitten.tumblr.com/post/161169657788/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I started writing those to write myself out of a (short-lived) writer's block some time ago. All the stories are standalone, they are not in the same continuity, and they explore different shades of the best ship there is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Pre-slash

Brock’s body flinched at the booming sound of a thunderbolt. He sat up on the couch and rubbed his face. He almost fell asleep on his watch. He pulled his bag closer and fished out a can of Red Bull. It opened with a hiss. He took a few sips and froze at the sound of footsteps. He checked the time on his phone – technically, his watch ended half an hour ago, but he didn’t plan on sleeping that night anyway.

Jack Rollins showed up in the doorway, wearing a thick parka over his pajamas. His eyes were narrowed, though the tiny room wasn’t well-lit at all; the only source of light was coming from the fire cracking in the fireplace. The sky outside was completely dark, not even one star twinkled through the windows. Their safehouse for the night – a small, wooden hut – was in the middle of nowhere, so there weren’t any street lights.

“Remind me,” Jack croaked out, “why are we sleeping in the room _without_ the fireplace? My ass almost froze off.”

“Because Westfahl complained it was too loud,” Brock replied.

Jack scoffed, making his way towards the couch. “There’s a storm raging outside, and trust me, Westfahl’s sleeping like a baby.” He took a seat beside Brock, his long legs sprawling out in front of the fireplace. “I’ll have that blanket if you don’t want it.”

The thin piece of grayish brown cloth that lay crumpled on Brock’s other side didn’t deserve to be called a blanket. Brock passed it to Jack, who covered his legs with it.

A lightning flashed through the window, followed by another deafening crash of thunder. The wind whistled, blowing so hard the walls shook. Jack looked around almost feverishly, with his eyes wide.

“Scared of a little storm?” Brock smirked and took another few sips of Red Bull. It wasn’t as cold as he liked it, but it would do.

“Not the storm,” Jack protested, settling down as soon as the walls stopped shaking. “Hurricane.”

Brock raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah, and shut up. You’re the one who’s drinking Red Bull at one in the morning, so. What are _you_ afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” Brock scoffed. “I have insomnia.”

He rubbed his heavy eyelids. Jack shifted in his place, curling one leg under himself so he was facing Brock. He rested his head on the backrest.

“You know, my mother’s an insomniac. So, one thing I know for sure about insomniacs is they’re trying hard to fall asleep, but they can’t. Not the other way around.” He smirked maliciously. “Westfahl’s gonna _piss_ himself when he learns Brock Rumlow is scared of storms.”

“I’m not scared,” Brock barked.

“Then what is it? Come on.” Jack nudged Brock’s ankle with his foot. “You know about me, now tell me something about you. It’s fair trade.”

Brock pressed the can to his lips, but didn’t take another drink. He wasn’t looking at Jack, his eyes fixed on the fire instead.

“It’s not that I’m scared,” he repeated slowly. “I just don’t like it.”

“What?”

“This.” Brock waved around. “Sleeping in places like this, with other people around.”

Jack didn’t say anything, but Brock sensed him staring. He tipped the can, took a big gulp and sighed. When he finally shifted his gaze to Jack, he was met with a frown.

“Do you trust me?” Jack asked in a low, serious voice.

“Yeah,” Brock replied after a moment of hesitation. It was true; he didn’t choose Jack for his second for nothing. Jack always looked out for him on missions, and saved his life more times than he cared to count. “Sure.”

“Then you know I won’t let anything happen to you on my watch.”

They held each other’s gaze until it became uncomfortable; Brock was the first to break eye contact. He handed Jack his Red Bull, bent down and dug his sleeping bag out of the bag. He unzipped it, curled on the couch, making sure his head didn’t touch Jack’s legs, and covered himself carefully. He wasn’t comfortable, but he _was_ tired.

“But wake me up when Westfahl changes you,” he muttered.

“Will do,” came Jack’s murmured answer.

 Brock closed his eyes, unaware of Jack smirking above him.


	2. Through His Teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: domestic violence, implied/referenced non con
> 
> Apologies to everyone who came here looking for fluff. There'll be more fluff in the future. The truth is, fluff isn't my default.

Jack opened the closet to unpack and stopped in his tracks.

“Where’s your stuff?” he asked warily, staring at the unexpected emptiness.

Brock pulled his hair back nervously. “Uh, about that. There are some things I didn’t tell you about.”

Jack turned on his heel and looked at Brock with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “What things?” he asked, seemingly at ease.

Brock started fidgeting in his place at the bedroom door. “Just don’t get mad, okay? It’s nothing.” He took a deep breath and blurted out, “Fury put Cap in charge.”

Jack frowned. “What?”

“Fury made Captain America a commander of STRIKE,” Brock said more slowly. “Which means I’m demoted. Which means you’re demoted. Sorry.”

Jack advanced on him, and it was all Brock could do not to take a step back. “That still doesn’t explain where all your things went to.”

“Pierce wants me to get closer to him, okay? To get _friendly_. That wouldn’t work if he knew I was already committed.”

Brock’s back was shoved against the wall and he yelped; Jack’s fingers tangled into the collar of his t-shirt, his firm body pressed into Brock’s, keeping him in place.

“Did you fuck?” Jack snarled through clenched teeth.

“No.” Brock tried to push him back, to no avail. “No, Jesus. We’re taking things slowly. I didn’t touch him.”

Jack shoved him into the wall again and Brock gritted his teeth in pain. Jack’s eyes searched his face somewhat feverishly, looking for any signs of deception.

“Jack,” Brock said, his voice gentle, trying to calm him down. “It’s just another mission, alright? It’s not like I want to play Captain America’s girlfriend.”

He must have said a wrong thing, because Jack shoved him again. Brock’s head hit the wall so hard his vision darkened for a second.

“Don’t lie,” he heard Jack snarl through the ringing in his ears. “Don’t pretend this isn’t a wet dream come true for you.”

“Of course it isn’t,” he replied weakly.

“All. Lies!”

Brock winced. Jack didn’t raise his voice often, but when he did, things didn’t end well for him.

“Maybe I should remind you who you really belong to.”

“Jack—” Brock began, but Jack wasn’t listening. He flipped him around, pressing his face into the wall. “Jack, let me go. You’re hurting me, let me go! Jack!”


	3. Too Quietly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: domestic fluff

Jack wakes up shivering; Brock has stolen all the covers and is now sleeping soundly, wrapped in them like a burrito. Jack gets up slightly displeased, and uses all the hot water in the shower out of spite. Then he goes to the kitchen and starts preparing coffee, trying to be as loud as possible. He fills the coffee maker – it’s one of the expensive ones, the kind that can make any coffee one could possibly want with just a press of a button. Just add coffee beans, milk, water and voila. Jack doesn’t know why Brock would need it since he only ever drinks black, but he’s not curious enough to ask.

Brock shows up in the door when coffee’s ready. His eyes are still half-closed, his hair messy and face a little puffy from sleep. Jack’s black t-shirt he’s wearing is big enough for him to cover half of his thighs. A gray blanket is hanging loosely off his shoulders.

Jack holds up a steaming cup and Brock approaches him, takes the cup to cradle it in his hands.

“I’m in love,” he confesses.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“How could I not be? It’s beautiful.” Brock is staring at the coffee’s thick crema lovingly.

Jack rolls his eyes, and because he has no impulse control, he mutters under his breath, “You’re beautiful.”

“What?” Brock is still admiring his coffee instead of drinking it like a normal person.

“Nothing.”


	4. Over the Phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack Rollins is Anatoli Knyazev.
> 
> Or is he?
> 
> (Kidding, he totally is. The title is "Things Jack Said" after all.)

Brock remains in touch with some of his ex-teammates after the fall of the Triskelion. Not that he wants to, but McKinnon and Murphy are persistent. Figures it would be these two; Brock wasn’t even surprised when the first message came. McKinnon and Brock go way back. Murphy’s the kind of a kid who brings homemade cookies for his teammates without an occasion. (Granted, the cookies were always vegan, so maybe Murphy secretly hated them all.) The rest of the team is either incarcerated or dead, and even if they weren’t, they wouldn’t bother to find Brock, just like Brock wouldn’t bother to find them. (With one exception, but he’s not thinking about that now. Not ever, most ideally.)

Brock isn’t up to much these days. Surviving, mostly – it’s hard to do anything more when a short walk from the bedroom to the toilet and back leaves him heaving and exhausted and napping on the cheap bed. It’s hard to move when you can barely feel half your body and the other half hurts like all hell. Brock needs to support himself on the walls or furniture at all times. Not much fun. So when the messages come, he reads them multiple times for entertainment. Sometimes he even fantasizes about responding until he passes out.

It’s been three months when the eighth message comes – Brock doesn’t mean to count them, but he can’t really help it – and he has yet to respond. It’s amazing that McKinnon and Murphy – or MM, as they sign – haven’t yet tired of talking to the void. They must know for sure he’s here and that he gets the messages. They must be near. Brock has yet to see either of them, but it’s probably better this way.

The eighth message is different, Brock notices even before opening the envelope. It’s thicker and stiffer. Two photographs fall out when he rips it open, along with a short note. He reads the note first. It contains a name, a phone number and a question, written in McKinnon’s neat handwriting.

_Does he look like anyone we know?_

Brock frowns and picks up the pictures. (His hands are shaking ever so slightly and it’s really one of the main reasons he hasn’t responded yet; he can barely write his own name down.) There’s the same man on both of them, and just a glance is enough for Brock’s heart to speed up. For a moment, all he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears as he stares at the man. His hair is dark and slicked back, and he has sunglasses on, but Brock knows his eyes are green. His face is turned, but Brock knows there’s a scar on the other side of his chin. His neck and hands have tattoos on them, but Brock knows what they look like without them. And his mind protests, because this man has no right to be walking upon Earth, because Brock saw his gravestone, saw his name on it, saw his sister crying over it. Brock knows this can’t be him. At the same time, Brock spent more than a decade studying this man’s body and he knows it better than his own. (Especially now, that he still has trouble getting used to his new appearance.) There’s no mistake.

For few days, he does nothing about it. He stares at the pictures for hours, until they’re burned into his mind and it’s all he sees when he closes his eyes. Sometimes he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. That he sees what he wants to see. It keeps him awake at night. Not that any of his doubts matter – he knows he will call. If he doesn’t, it’ll eat away at him forever.

So one day he gathers strength to get out and buy a phone. He’s exhausted by the time he gets back, but also too anxious to sleep, like he overdosed caffeine. He types in the number and presses call. He listens to the steady beeping with his heart in his throat until it ceases and he hears a familiar voice.

“Knyazev.”

Brock closes his eyes. It has to be Jack. He’s been listening to that jackass every day for about fifteen years. He’s heard his voice on the phone, on the radio, drunk singing on a karaoke night. He’s heard him whisper and with a sore throat. The voice is definitely Jack’s – dumbass isn’t even trying to change it.

“Hello?” he asks, a little impatient.

“Hi.” Brock’s voice is different, he can hear it. It’s hoarse and harder to get out. “I have a job for you.”

He figures Jack went freelance. They all did. (Those who weren’t too busy wheezing on a run-down couch in their hideaway.) What else could they do?

“Yeah? What kind of job?” There’s an accent. Slight, but Jack works it in anyway. He’s always paid attention to the smallest details.

“I’m looking for a guy. Thought he was dead, turns out he’s been holing up somewhere under a fake name. Could you find him for me?”

“Depends. Who’s asking?”

Brock hesitates. He doesn’t want to give his name. He doesn’t know who Jack’s with, or if his calls are monitored. Jack must have recognized him, even with his voice as fucked up as it is. He’s just asking for confirmation.

“C-Bones,” he says eventually and really, he needs a new codename. Every ex-STRIKE member knows who C-Bones is, _including_ Rogers.

“Beautiful name.” Brock can hear a smirk in Jack’s voice. “Does it have a beautiful face to match?”

Brock shivers and swallows, but his throat remains dry. Does Jack know? He runs his fingers over the spot where his left eyebrow used to be. The skin is bumpy and raised.

“Did.” He clears his throat because his voice is a little strangled all of a sudden. “Once.”

“Once beautiful, always beautiful,” Jack says. “Alright. Let’s meet.”


	5. Things Jack Didn't Say at All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: toxic relationship

“Sorry, I’m late,” Brock says as he walks into the living room where Jack is sitting on the couch, an open book in hand.

He stayed in the Triskelion’s gym after work. Usually, he trains for about two hours, but today he pushed three. When he finally walked inside the locker room and checked his phone, with a slight hope that _maybe_ Jack finally took notice, he was disappointed to find he didn’t have even one missed call or text.

Jack doesn’t acknowledge him, nose still buried in the book. Like Brock could not bother to come home at all, and Jack wouldn’t even notice. Which is nothing out of ordinary, really. Jack seems to only pay attention to his boyfriend when he wants to fuck. Other than that, Brock could not exist.

Brock approaches Jack, close enough for him to smell the body spray he borrowed from Murphy. It would be ideal if Brock also reeked of sex, but he has no desire to really cheat on Jack, so the smell of another man has to suffice.

“Might be late tomorrow, too,” he says, keeping his tone light. “Murphy wants me to train with him. Can’t really say no to him, you know? He has one of those faces.”

Jack does acknowledge him this time, via nodding his head. Brock isn’t entirely sure Jack’s mind’s processing what he’s saying. Multitasking isn’t something Jack is known for.

“So, if you, by any chance, had something planned for our anniversary, we can just do it some other day, right?” Brock continues, still struggling to sound casual, although his voice is a little higher, a little tighter. “It’s not like it really matters, right?”

Jack doesn’t react and Brock nudges his shank with his foot.

“I’m talking to you, jackass.”

“I hear you,” Jack mumbles.

Brock stares at him. He’s kind of expecting to feel something. He should be angry, or sad, or hurt, or bemused at the very least _._ But he’s an empty shell.

“Do you even care?” he asks in a hollow voice. “Would you care if I walked out that door and never came back?”

Jack frowns. “Brock, I’m trying to read.”

Brock thinks how a few months ago, he’d punch him. He’d yank the book out of his hands and shove it into his teeth for not even as much as _glancing_ at him. He’d demand an answer in a loud, trembling voice. Hell, he _liked_ it at first. Liked getting angry with him, yelling at him, picking up fights. Jack would always fight back, and they’d throw punches until they were bruised and bleeding, aching and gasping, rock hard in their pants, and then they’d fuck on the floor like there was no tomorrow.

But today, Brock is tired. He’s been for a while, and Jack’s coldness isn’t something he can stand anymore. So he leaves the room without another word, since he’s only a bother to Jack anyway, and crosses the hallway to reach the bedroom. He opens the closet that is way too small to suit two people, but Jack has never complained about it, so Brock has never felt a need to do anything about it, not that Jack ever complains about anything. He hauls out his suitcase and throws it on the bed, grabs a handful of his clothes and throws them inside – and if Jack’s favorite hoodie happens to mix in with them, then well, it’s not like Jack’s even gonna care. Unless he cares about his clothes more than he does about Brock, which would be fucking sad. Brock shakes his head to himself, wondering what the hell he sees in Jack, really, it’s not like he likes being ignored on the regular basis. He grabs another handful of his clothes and underwear, throws them into the suitcase, grabs his laptop from the desk and puts it on top of everything. He hears footsteps in the hallway as he’s bent down, trying to fit all his things in, the suitcase too small to accommodate all his stuff. He doesn’t have to look to know Jack’s standing in the doorway. He thinks about his cosmetics that are still in the bathroom, but screw it, he can buy new ones, it’s not a problem. His main priority now is to just _leave_.

He zips up the suitcase and grabs it, the muscles of his right arm straining with its weight. When he turns, he finds out his way out is completely blocked by Jack’s bulk.

“Where’re you going?” Jack asks in a low voice.

Out. But where then, Brock has no idea. Maybe he’ll crash at Murphy’s. They’re not that close, actually, but the rookie is a people pleaser. He’ll help.

“Don’t act like it matters to you all of a sudden,” Brock says without heat. He’s rather resigned. “Lemme go.”

Jack moves, but instead of taking a step to the side, he advances on Brock. He leans in, and before Brock manages to react, to drop the suitcase and put his hands up in defense, Jack wraps his arms around him and pulls him close.

Brock is completely taken aback, all his muscles tensing as Jack holds him, his face buried in the crook of Brock’s neck. Brock’s nose is pressed to Jack’s shoulder and he breathes in his smell, cigarette smoke and peppermint gum. He shuts his eyes, feeling his muscles slowly relax; his body slightly slumps against Jack’s, his fingers let go of the suitcase, letting it drop on the floor with a loud thump, his other arm raises to wrap itself around Jack’s waist. Jack exhales audibly, his hand stroking Brock’s back few times before he lets go of him.

“I bought beer,” he says and leaves the bedroom, probably to take two bottles out of the fridge.

Brock looks down at the suitcase with a sigh. Tonight, he’ll stay.


	6. Under the Stars and in the Grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With dedication to all the astronomy geeks out there. We were lied to.

“Brooock,” Jack slurs somewhere on Brock’s right side. “Listen t’me.”

They’re at Mercer’s party cabin, lying in the backyard on their backs and staring up at the night sky. Jack’s drunk as fuck, what maybe would be annoying if it wasn’t so satisfying that for the first time in Brock’s life, there’s somebody drunker than him at a party. Not that Brock’s sober. His head’s spinning whenever he closes his eyes for longer than a blink.

“Brooock,” Jack repeats when Brock doesn’t answer, his widened eyes fixed on the sky. “I can’t believe Pluto’s not a fuckin’ planet anymore.”

Brock blinks, because what the fuck. “Wha?” he slurs back at Jack.

“Like, imagine yer a happy little planet, mindin’ yer own business, and suddenly they tell ya yer not a planet anymore. How does that make ya feel?”

“Planets don’t have feelings, Jackie.”

“But _imagine_ ,” Jack insists. “Because I’d be pretty fuckin’ hurt.”

Brock doesn’t say anything to that, hoping that Jack just drops the subject, but after a moment of silence, Jack’s running his mouth again.

“My whole life’s a lie. Like since the day I was born, there always been nine planets in our solar system. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus—”

“Leave my anus outta this.”

Jack’s hand raises and remains like that for a moment, then drops back on his chest like he forgets what he wanted to do with it. Knowing him, he wanted to slap Brock, so it’s probably better this way.

“Uranus, Neptune, Pluto,” he finishes. “And now they’re tellin’ me Pluto’s not a fuckin’ planet, that there’s eight o’ them?”

“Man, they said that, like, what, five years ago? You should get over this by now.”

“What’s next?” Jack continues like Brock didn’t say anything. “Australia’s not a continent? Coconut’s not a nut?”

“It’s not a nut,” Brock argues. “It’s a coco fruit.”

“Brock, I’m serious,” Jack actually _whines_. “My whole life‘s a fuckin’ _lie_.”

“Drama queen,” Brock mutters.

“You just don’t geddit, do you? It’s like…” His face lights up when he comes up with a metaphor that Brock will get. “It’s like, I’m Hydra, right?”

Brock grunts in agreement.

“And then I tell you I’m not Hydra, that I’ve been Fury’s mole the whole time. And yer whole world crumbles, because it turns out a universal truth ya took for granted isn’t… well, true.”

Brock’s eyes narrow. That… that is actually pretty disconcerting. That, and the fact Jack just said more words than he has all month.

“Jack,” he says softly. “There somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

“Yes,” Jack exclaims eagerly. “You can’t do that to people, man.”

He keeps repeating it under his breath until his eyes fall shut and he starts snoring loudly. Brock is feeling sleepy himself, but they can’t sleep on the ground; no matter how warm the night is, the grass will eventually get wet from dew and they could catch a cold. He hauls himself onto his feet. Jack won’t wake up, and his body is too heavy for Brock to lift and carry, so he decides to wrap him in, like, a dozen blankets instead.

It’s a pity he didn’t record Jack’s deep musings on his phone, he thinks as he walks back inside the cabin. McKinnon would die laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know coconut is in fact, a fruit? Crazy, huh?


	7. When Brock Was Crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm apparently in not enough pain, because I'm posting the fills out of order.
> 
> ...
> 
> This was a terrible order through pain joke, I am very sorry.
> 
> Tags: divorce

Brock isn’t expecting it when it happens. They’re not fighting. They’re having a peaceful breakfast at their dining table, like every other Saturday. So when Jack casually says he filed for a divorce, while still scrolling through Facebook on his phone, Brock almost chokes on his pancakes.

“What?” he asks after he forces the bite down his throat.

“You heard me.” Jack takes a sip of coffee. He still doesn’t look at Brock. “I’m moving in with my sister for a while, but legally the house is mine, so I’d appreciate it if you left within a month. More than enough time to find yourself a decent place.”

“Why?”

There’s no reason for Jack to suddenly want a divorce. Or is Brock missing something? He tries to remember any signs that would suggest something was wrong. He notices one right now, when he looks at Jack’s hands – he’s not wearing the ring. But Brock is almost hundred percent sure he had it on yesterday.

“I just stopped loving you.”

“What, in one day?”

“Not in one day. It happened gradually.”

Brock slumps in his chair, his shoulder blade bouncing off the backrest. He can’t remember anything. They went skiing in winter and everything was alright. Last month they had dinner with Jack’s sister. Last night they had sex and Jack held him as he drifted off. It doesn’t make any sense.

There’s really only one possible explanation, and it doesn’t make much of a sense either.

“There’s someone else.” Brock’s voice is strangled, his eyes hot and he can’t stop them from watering.

Jack finally looks up at him. He frowns.

“Jesus, pull yourself together,” he snarls. “At least once in your life don’t act like a goddamn baby and handle it like an adult.”

Brock throws the cutlery he’s been clenching the whole time on the plate with a loud clang.

“Cut that shit out,” he snaps. “You have no fucking right.”

He jumps to his feet, tipping the chair over. Jack winces when it hits the floor, but Brock doesn’t care. He storms off to the bathroom and locks himself inside, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks up; a red-eyed reflection stares back at him. He lets out a shaky breath and looks away.


	8. That Made Brock Feel Like Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: implied dub con

The lights are out when Brock arrives at their – now just Jack’s – house. It’s not exactly late yet, so it’s unlikely Jack’s asleep. He must be out. Brock doesn’t feel disappointed, because he didn’t come here to see Jack. His presence would be a bonus, but what Brock’s seeking is the comfort of the only place he could ever really call home. He still thinks about the house as his home, and hopes to move back in one day. When it’s all over.

If Jack will have him, that is.      

He unlocks the door with his key – he doesn’t want to return it, and Jack never asks, so Brock figures it’s okay if he keeps it – and walks in. He turns on the light and looks both ways.

“Jack?” he calls out, just in case.

All he’s met with is silence, so he toes off his sneakers and walks to the kitchen. Nothing changed as far as he can tell; only his coffee maker is missing from its honorary place in the middle of the countertop, since he took it with him to the bachelor pad Hydra is renting for him. The kitchen is messier than what it used to be when he still lived here, but that’s hardly a surprise. Jack has never really cared about keeping the house clean. He scowls at the tower of dirty plates, bowls and pots in the sink. Jack probably won’t wash all of that up until the mold becomes sentient and tries to make him its slave, alternatively kick him out of the house, or perhaps eat him. It’ll be too late then, of course.

It’s not that Brock wants to be heroic and save Jack from the sentient mold. No, the problem is, there’s no way he can possibly fill the kettle with water from the tap with all these dishes in the way. Besides, it’ll provide a good distraction.

He’s wrong. Washing the dishes is an automatic action, and his mind starts to wander, bringing back memories from an hour ago. He should have known. Having decided he no longer wants tea, he closes the tap and shuts his eyes, breathing deeply. He can feel his body tremble. Fucking weak.

Having settled down a bit, he opens his eyes and leaves the recently washed plate on the top of two others on the countertop. Jack can dry them off later, though Brock suspects he’ll shove them into a cupboard wet. Provided he’ll even bother to put them away. There’s nothing more convenient than a clean plate lying right there on the countertop when your slice of pizza’s too hot.

Shaking his head a bit, Brock walks up to the shelf where they – just Jack, now – keep alcohol. The display’s different than he remembers; the bottle of Jack’s bourbon is missing, and there’s an opened bottle of Triple Sec standing in its place. He frowns, because who the fuck drinks that (not Jack), but loses interest when his eyes fall on a bottle of red wine. He grabs it – it’s a little dusty, and according to the label, semi-dry. Somebody gave it to him for his birthday – or was it Christmas – and neither him nor Jack wanted to touch it for years, since he prefers sweet wine over dry, and Jack isn’t a fan of wine at all.

He takes the bottle to the dining table, snatching a glass and a corkscrew along the way. He sits down and opens the bottle, fills the glass and takes a big gulp. He winces; it tastes worse than he expected, but that’s okay. He actually wants it to taste bad. He wants to suffer with every sip.

He’s downed his second glass when the front door opens. He recognizes Jack’s heavy footsteps right away. Jack’s alone, and Brock feels a little relieved. They’re taking a break – he could have come back with somebody.

Jack shows up in the doorway, his face blank as usual. He’s not surprised to see Brock; he saw the lights in the windows, and his sneakers in the hall. His eyes roam over Brock’s frame, lingering on his pale face, glassy eyes, pursed lips and hands clenching the glass so hard his knuckles go white. He notices the slight shiver of his muscles, his haunted gaze fixed on the glass with just the remains of the crimson liquid. Instantly, he knows what happened – he knew it would, they both did, and Brock might have acted like it didn’t bother him at all, like it was just a job to him, but Jack didn’t believe him for a second.

“How did you do it?” he asks, not because he wants to know – he _doesn’t_ – but to get Brock to talk.

Brock doesn’t look up at him. Maybe he’s not able to look him in the eyes. Maybe he just doesn’t want to. He’s not even surprised Jack knows what happened, he’s always read Brock like a book, so why would it be any different now.

“On his bed,” he replies, and he is a little intoxicated, but it doesn’t show in his voice at all. “He asked if it was okay. I said it was.”

“And was it?” Jack asks nonchalantly, like they’re talking about dinner. Like it doesn’t even matter to him.

Brock shrugs, finally looking up. He wishes Jack didn’t come back. “It was what it was. A mission’s a mission.”

Jack’s lips curl into a sneer. “Right. A mission for Hydra’s best and brightest. I’m _almost_ envious. Hail Hydra.” He walks out the door, rolling his eyes.

The words make Brock nauseous.

“Hail Hydra,” he whispers back, the words bitter in his mouth.


	9. When He Thought Brock Was Asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest starring Steve Rogers.

The first thing that he knows for sure is that he’s in pain. The second thing – his eyelids feel like they’re stuck together. And the third thing – he’s on the verge of fainting.

“Jack,” he calls out, his voice rough and weak. He needs Jack to take over. Are they even still in the field? He doesn’t know. “Jack.”

“I’m here,” a gruff voice reassures him, and Brock lets himself go.

When he comes to, he doesn’t open his eyes right away. He can tell he’s in a hospital – he’d recognize the smell and scratchy sheets anytime. He feels well, but it must be thanks to painkillers. Somebody is sitting beside him. Jack?

A soft hand covers his. Not Jack. Jack wouldn’t do that. Must be Steve. Of course it’s Steve, Brock can now smell him. Sandalwood and freedom.

He hears footsteps and a door closing. Steve moves in his seat; he must have turned to look at the newcomer. His hand slips down on the covers.

“Were you touching him?” It’s Jack. His voice is low and if Brock is right, he’s standing right behind Steve. Brock’s never wrong. Well, almost.

“No!” Steve sounds indignant at the suggestion. “I only held his hand.”

“For future reference, he doesn’t like that.” Jack walks around Brock’s bed slowly, sits down opposite Steve, but closer to Brock’s head. Brock can smell him now, too; tobacco and peppermint gum.

“Doesn’t like what?”

“Being touched while he’s asleep. In any way.”

Steve doesn’t respond. Brock can sense the tension between them – it’s so thick he could cut it. He wonders briefly if he shouldn’t let them know he’s awake, but decides against it. It could be fun.

“You don’t know him like I do,” Jack speaks up. “Never will.”

“I don’t think that matters,” Steve replies.

“He called for me. Not for you.”

Brock remembers saying Jack’s name. Where were they when that happened? Already here? Was Steve there as well? Shit. How does Brock explain that?

“That doesn’t matter either,” Steve says and Brock relaxes. Maybe he won’t have to explain. He was in shock, he didn’t know what he was doing.

Jack doesn’t have anything else to say and the silence prolongs. Brock suspects he’s missing quite an impressive staring contest. He’s anxious to see what will happen. Jack and Steve aren’t too fond of each other, to put it lightly. Jack hates Steve for obvious reasons. Steve knows Jack mainly as “Brock’s crazy ex”. Brock didn’t plan on introducing Jack to him this way, but Jack was indeed acting like Brock’s crazy ex, complete with jealousy and possessiveness. He almost jeopardized Brock’s honeypot mission, which was obviously his goal. Brock almost fucking killed him.

But now Jack is calm, and it’s been weeks without an incident. Steve must realize that, because he raises from his plastic chair.

“I’m getting coffee, want something?”

Jack doesn’t respond and Steve leaves after a moment. Brock imagines Jack just glared at him meaningfully, but he might have as well flip him a bird. He smirks at the thought.

“So you’re awake. Asshole.”

Brock opens his eyes. Jack’s reclining in a plastic chair with his arms crossed on his chest and long legs sprawled out.

“Thanks for protecting my chastity,” Brock quips and clears his throat. His voice is croaky.

“Fuck off.”


	10. After He Kissed Brock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: major character death, euthanasia
> 
> I AM SO SORRY

Brock finished fastening the armor on his chest and picked up the helmet.

“Won’t you kiss me goodbye?” Jack asked wryly from his position in the corner of the small, concrete room they called their quarters.

Brock looked up at him and set the helmet back on the desk. He wasn’t coming back, they both knew this. Not that it mattered. Jack wasn’t gonna be there to wait for him.

“I will.”

He walked up to him and leaned in, resting his hands on the armrests of his wheelchair. He kissed his lips, one of the very few places he still had feeling in. He pulled away and walked back to the desk. He ripped open a pack of syringes, took one and filled it with a clear substance from a bottle he snatched from an abandoned Hydra base when he had a chance. Only the best stuff for his Jackie. It was gonna make him feel warm and calm, and he wasn’t even gonna feel the pinprick. Brock chose this way over a bullet to the head, arguing he didn’t want it to hurt, not even for a split second, though he was aware the reason might have been he was simply unable to aim at Jack and pull the trigger. Maybe few years ago, when he was still greedily swallowing whatever Pierce was feeding him, he would have, but that Brock was gone.

“I’ll make him pay,” Brock promised.

“I didn’t want this for us,” Jack said. “We were supposed to be happy.”

Brock approached him again, sat down on their hard bed and took his forearm in a tight grip. He wasn’t gonna need a tourniquet, Jack’s veins were always visible and protruding beneath his skin.

“We were happy,” he said. “Weren’t you happy with me? Before everything went to shit?”

Jack’s frown smoothed out. “I was.”

Brock smiled at him, a little bitterly, and dropped his gaze again to inspect Jack’s forearm. He found a vein he was happy with and inserted the needle in. He slowly injected the clear liquid. Jack wasn’t watching him, so he didn’t even know when it was over. Brock removed the needle and discarded the empty syringe on the bed. He raised from his place to kiss Jack again, sweetly and thoroughly like it was the last – because it was.

“I still am,” Jack said when they parted, looking at Brock with hooded eyes. There was affection in them, what kept amazing Brock, because after the fall, he looked only a little better than Freddie Krueger. “Happy, here with you.”

Brock smiled at him and sat back down. Jack suffered a spinal injury during the fall that left him paralyzed from his neck down. Brock took care of him as best he could, but it wasn’t always easy, considering his own injuries and the fact they had to keep moving not to be found by Cap and co. With Brock gone, who else would take care of him? Certainly not the thugs he worked with. They’d leave him to starve.

“Are you warm?” Brock reached out to hold Jack’s hand but stopped himself in time; it was pointless.

It took Jack a moment to answer.

“Yeah…”

Brock knew it wouldn’t take long.

“You know what we never saw?” Jack asked. “Easter Island. We never went there.”

“We saw lotsa other places,” Brock said. “Remember Giza?”

“Yeah. That’s where we kissed for the first time.”

“Yeah,” Brock whispered. Jack mixed up Giza with Odessa. No matter, Brock should have brought up Odessa anyway.

He watched Jack until his chest stopped moving. He pressed two fingers to the side of his neck, just to make sure. There was no pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave myself a sad.


	11. When They Were the Happiest They Ever Were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: internalized homophobia, domestic fluff

Jack ignored the protest of his legs when Brock suddenly jumped at him to straddle him. That was not the problem. The problem was Brock yanking the book he was engrossed in out of his grasp and throwing it to the side. The book hit the shelf and dropped on the floor, landing on open pages, bending them in the process. Jack winced. Good luck finding the page he was on. And just when he was getting to the good part.

“The fuck you’re doing?” he asked, looking up at Brock.

Fucker was bouncing on his legs, wearing a smug smirk. He raised his right hand a little and Jack dropped his gaze to see what the fuss was about. He raised his eyebrows at what Brock was holding. It was a little square box with a silver ring inside.

“Are you fucking proposing to me?” Jack asked, not knowing if he was more angry or bewildered.

“No,” Brock replied cheerfully. “I’m _bro_ posing.”

Jack blinked. “Broposing.” Was this little fucker serious? “Right. Of course.”

“Jack,” Brock began solemnly. “My other. My mate. Will you be my bro till the end of our lives?” He never stopped grinning, like it was some big fucking joke to him.

“Considering you’re gonna be dead in about three minutes, because that’s how long it’ll take me to strangle you, then I suppose yes.”

“He said yes!” Brock’s voice was higher as he cheered and Jack couldn’t suppress a light smile. Okay, it was a little funny.

Brock took the ring and Jack let him slip it on his finger. It was a simple silver band, not too thin, not too thick. Jack imagined Brock buying it. He probably asked for something “not gay”.

He looked back up at Brock. He was still wearing a delighted smile. Jack shook his head at him.

“What?” Brock asked, his voice laced with laughter.

“Nothing,” Jack replied.

He was getting married. Or whatever bro equivalent of getting married Brock would manage to make up.


	12. That Brock Wasn't Meant to Hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: brainwashing, non con kissing

Rollins comes to when the clamps of the chair close around his arms and legs.

“What’s—” Brock hears him say through the buzz of the chair. Rollins’ eyes run around the dim room frantically, taking in the concrete walls, computer equipment, two techs in lab coats moving around, until they fall on Brock. “Commander?”

Brock stands in the middle of the room with his arms crossed on his chest, hands tucked under his armpits. He says nothing, only regards Rollins with a hard stare. He can see Rollins’ Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, surely remembering what happened before Brock knocked him out. Soon, he’ll realize what’s going on.

A tech that Brock dubs Bowtie in his head stands in front of Rollins, breaking their eye contact. He presses a rubber mouth guard against Rollins’ lips. Rollins just stares at it.

“Open up,” Brock orders, and maybe Rollins remembers what happened, maybe he figured out what’s about to happen, what Brock is about to do to him, but he’s still following orders; he parts his lips, letting the mouth guard slip in.

“We’ll be done in about ten minutes, sir,” the other tech, Not Bowtie, says.

He presses some buttons and the chair buzzes again as the two halo pieces close around Rollins’ head. Rollins’ wide eyes dart to Brock again and a muffled, panicked sound escapes him. Brock doesn’t try to figure out what he wants to say, soon it won’t matter, anyway. He turns on his heel, dropping his arms by his sides as the first jolt of electricity goes through Rollins’ head. He doesn’t have to stay for this, doesn’t have to watch, so he leaves, Rollins’ muffled screams of agony following him out the door.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to recruit Rollins the regular way. He even had a speech ready. It was beautiful. He was waiting for the right moment, he had to be sure Rollins was ready for this, that he wouldn’t freak out nor try anything funny. And then Westfahl had to ruin everything. 

Brock sighs, rubbing his eyes. Okay, so for once, it isn’t entirely on Westfahl. First, Foster fucked up by dying. If he hadn’t died, Brock wouldn’t have to replace him. Second, Rollins fucked up, by being the best out of the candidates for the newly vacant place on Alpha. Brock was forced to choose him, despite _knowing_ in the back of his head that taking an outsider on Alpha was playing with fire. Everything was fine though, until today, when Westfahl killed S.H.I.E.L.D.’s asset that Rollins thought they were supposed to protect, _in front of Rollins_. That itself wouldn’t be so disastrous – it was Westfahl, Brock could say something like, “Dammit, Westfahl,” and Rollins would assume it was an accident. But no, Westfahl shot the target with a hail Hydra on his lips. _He fucking hailed Hydra in front of Rollins._ Brock almost fucking shot him. Then Bourne put his gun to Rollins’ forehead. It wasn’t helping the situation any, so Brock did the only thing he still could, which was to knock Rollins out with the handle of his gun before Bourne blew his brains out. And then he punched Bourne. Which was an idiotic thing to do because Bourne threatened he would report it, and Brock couldn’t have that. Pierce would fucking chew him out and order him to kill Rollins, which was something Brock wanted to avoid. Rollins was his recruit. Killing him off instead of making him a valuable Hydra agent would mean failure. There’s no place for failure in Hydra. That, and Brock put time and effort into finding and subtly guiding Rollins. A lot of time and effort.

Which brings him here. Here being an underground Hydra base below the Triskelion. Yes, _right_ under Fury’s nose. Brock usually feels satisfaction when he thinks about that, but now he can still hear Rollins’ screams, and he’s bitter over the amount of ass-kissing he had to do to get the access to the chair. Hopefully, the results will be worth it.

He looks at his watch and sighs; he still has eight minutes to kill, so he goes upstairs and grabs something to eat.

It’s been fifteen minutes when he comes back. He can no longer hear Rollins’ screams, and when he enters the room with the chair, the smell of antiseptic hits his nose. The chair is empty, and Bowtie is wiping it. Not Bowtie is sitting at a metal desk, writing something down. Rollins is nowhere to be seen.

“How did it go?” Brock asks, his voice a little rough. He hopes they didn’t fry Rollins’ brain.

“Excellent,” Not Bowtie says, looking up at him and adjusting his glasses that keep sliding down his narrow nose. “He’s in the backroom, awaiting your orders.”

Awaiting his orders. Like Rollins is some kind of Winter Soldier.

Brock crosses the room to reach the backdoor and opens it. The little backroom is dark, so he flicks on the light. A single lightbulb flickers few times before fully lighting up.

Rollins is sitting on something that looks like an old operating table, metal and rusty. His shoulders are slumped, and he’s leaning a little forwards, his open-palmed hands resting on his knees. He’s staring straight ahead and doesn’t move when Brock closes the door and approaches him. Brock stands right in front of him, tilting his chin up with his finger to take a better look. There’s a burn on Rollins’ forehead in a shape of one of the halo pieces. His eyes are unfocused, the pupils blown. Brock guesses he was given painkillers.

“Agent Rollins,” he says lowly, wanting to grab his attention.

Rollins’ eyes come into focus and they widen as they look up at Brock’s face. His jaw goes slack against Brock’s finger. He looks at Brock as if he’s seeing him for the first time in his life, which, as far as Rollins is currently concerned, might as well be true. He moves his lips, but no sound comes out.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” Brock says.

Rollins doesn’t react. Brock is once again reminded of the Winter Soldier. He as well wouldn’t take the hint. Clear orders worked best.

“Repeat,” Brock commands.

“Pretty,” Rollins repeats in a faint voice, breaking the word into syllables.

Brock almost takes a step back in his surprise. For a moment there, he thinks he heard wrong.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Rollins simply nods. Brock blinks once, twice. Then smirks. Because this, this is very convenient.

He cradles Rollins’ face in both hands and leans in to kiss him. Rollins doesn’t react right away. He must be as confused as the Winter Soldier would be in a similar situation. For a second, Brock wonders if he’s doing the right thing – but it’s not like kissing Rollins is any worse than putting his brain in a blender. Brock is actually doing him a favor here – he’s saving his fucking life. Rollins catches on and kisses back, mimicking what Brock is doing, so he wants this. Right? Right.

When Brock pulls away, Rollins’ hooded eyes are glazed over. Brock knows that after Rollins comes to himself, the memory of what just happened will be so vague in his mind, he’s going to assume it was a dream. But any possible emotions that Brock just stirred in him will stay. Hydra’s best way of conditioning – Brock knows, he has seen it at work. He can’t help a smirk creeping onto his face. Recruiting Rollins is going to be a piece of cake after this.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr.


End file.
